


On The Inside

by Tarvok



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Batman Betrayed, Character Study, Eventual Romance, Graphic Rape, Graphic Violence, Medicated Joker, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Drama, Rape Recovery, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-05-05 05:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14610951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarvok/pseuds/Tarvok
Summary: Bruce Wayne is drugged and committed to Arkham Asylum. What happens while he is there will forever change him.A study of male rape, and the aftermath of survival.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to try my hand at another one of my dark!fics. It's been a while, and I don't know how far I'll get with this one. It depends on my mental state and if Bruce is good to me.
> 
> As usual, this is loosely based on life experience and all that. I've never been in a mental institution or prison, though, so excuse anything that doesn't make sense to those of you who have.
> 
> There is a point to this story. None of the violence is gratuitous. I should hope by now you all understand none of my dark stuff is meant to be, or is, "sexy." If not, GTFO.
> 
> I am unapologetically *over* those kinds of people. You do not have support here. Survivors, yes. All my love is yours. Don't ever let anybody make you feel like shit for what you've been through. You're stronger than you know.

It was another day, miserable like every single other day I'd been in here. I'd seen the inside of the Arkham Asylum many times before, but never from behind bars.

Seeing as I was solely responsible for the residency of nearly everyone here, I was not the "good" kind of popular.

The Joker, however, seemed to have appointed himself my personal guard and "bestie," as he called himself. Whether I needed such a thing or even appreciated it had little bearing on why he did it. There was a decent chance he was doing it just to irritate me, but without proof of this (and with a distinct lack of outer emotion on my part), I've decided to just observe him.

I made my way out of my dreary, grey, 8x12 cell (somehow gifted to me by the guards for what, their admiration?), and shuffled toward the cafeteria. My leg irons prevented any real ease with the stairs, but I managed.

As I passed by the barred windows along the hall between my cell and the cafeteria, I looked out to see nothing but fog and the occasional darkened outline of a Bald Cypress. This morning was cold and wet, rainy just like every other day since I'd first arrived over a month ago.

I heard an impatient sigh to my left as I rounded the final corner, to see several guards and the Joker standing near the entrance to the cafeteria.

One of the guards frequently posted there shoved his taser out toward him.

"Chill out, will you," he said, and waved it around. "It's too early for this shit."

The Joker paid him no mind, because now he was too occupied with staring at me. "Hey there, Bats. Have a rough night?"

I just shrugged and walked past them all into the cafeteria. He followed, to the guards' protests, and watched me pick up a tray to get whatever slop was on offer.

He leaned in to my left and whispered, "You're better off getting the potatoes and corned beef. The other stuff is nasty. It looks good, but you'll just get the shits."

I took him at his word; the artificial coloring of the dessert did not look appetizing in the least, and the brown stuff next to the potatoes smelled a little _too_ good. The beef was pink, and probably tasted of a salt block, but I'd had worse. At least it would be easy to tell if it had gone bad.

I grabbed my plastic spoon and some napkins and found a table with the least amount of pissed off faces glaring at me to sit at.

The Joker had his own tray, and two bottled waters with him, when he sat down. He passed one to me, and I opened it and took a deep swallow. He continued to stare at me the entire time. It was becoming almost slightly bearable. Almost.

"So. Rough night?" He was picking at his potatoes, sliding them around the tray.

"You know it was," I responded, grimacing. _It always is._

"Hmph. They should give you something for it, at least." He makes a show of looking around the room to see if anyone is listening. Obviously, this whole conversation is being recorded. "I have some extra _stuff_ if you..."

" _No._ Drop it."

He shrugs, "Okay. Just know it's there if you want it."

The Joker has been on an amazing cocktail of drugs, a veritable _rainbow_ of pills, since before I got here. Some of them, he actually takes. The others, he stashes away someplace and trades them for either cigarettes or condoms in the late hours. For some reason, he gives me the occasional condom. I imagine I can trade them for something eventually.

So far as I can tell, what he does take has done wonders for his violent tendencies and impulse control problems. He's still an unknown element, but it's easier to keep an eye on him in here.

What he doesn't know is that I've been on a low dose lactate solution of haloperidol since I got here. Not exactly something I can fake taking or stash away for later use. It was a requirement placed on me by the judge who had me put in here. I don't have to be on anything nearly as strong as most of the people committed here, but my dose will go up or down based on the results of my evaluations. I have one of those later today, after lunch.

We finish breakfast and it's time to head to the recreation room. This is the only thing I look forward to. I'm able to watch and get a read on each of the patients. Many of them are non-violent, but still a danger to themselves. I've advised the board of directors that they be sent elsewhere, away from the other inmates. I doubt I've been more than humored, but I felt it important to bring up. I still do. They're no more than victims here. Victims who possess no ability to recover in an environment such as this.

When we arrive, the room is not at capacity. I take note of each entry and exit point, as well as the three barred windows, as always, though I know this will not change.

It's a movie marathon running today on the old TV in the center of the room, and I notice the usual chess set has been replaced with a puzzle. There's a blood stain, fresh it looks like, underneath the table.

The Joker huffs next to me, "Aw, somebody had an accident. Looks like it's no chess for us today, Lover."

I ignore him. I've noticed that he doesn't take change well, and I can practically smell it before it happens.

He turns his back toward the far wall, and with his arms behind his back, stalks backward away from me. "Who was it, huh? Who had the _wittle_ accident," he laughs. The guards lining the walls take a few steps forward.

I try to catch his eye, calm him somehow, but I know it won't work. The loud _click zap_ of the taser echoes in my ears before I get a chance to say, "It's just the chess set... give him a minute..."

The Joker goes down, laughing and twitching violently all the while.

I watch as two guards drag him away, unconscious, smug looks on their faces. One mutters, "Fucking nutter," under his breath as he passes by me. I catch his eye and he has the decency to quickly look away.

I make my way to my usual spot across from the chess table-turned-puzzle table and sit down. It gives me a vantage point of the rest of the room with the windows at my back. It's not ideal, but I made the mistake of choosing a corner my first day here, and I do not intend to repeat it. The recreation room is six stories up, with an elevator separating it from the rest of the building. I guess isolating a bunch of dangerous lunatics in a small room in a high place is what is considered a _good_ idea to these people. I think it's a terrible one.

I glance at the clock. I've got a few hours until my eval. I look around the room at the myriad drugged and drowsy faces, and I find myself wondering if the Joker is going to come back into the room covered in cuts and bruises this time, or if I'll even see him before tomorrow.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge rape trigger warning for right after the doctor's appointment/Bruce's psych eval.
> 
> You've been warned.

As two o'clock rolls around, one of the guards standing outside the cafeteria twists around into the room and waves me over. He leads me down the hall to the "good doctor's" office. I sit in my usual place on the bench just inside the room next to another inmate and wait my turn. It isn't long before the door opens and the doctor motions me in once he spots me.

"Ah, Bruce. So good to see you," he says in that fake saccharine tone of his. "I trust everything has been going well?" He motions for me to sit in the chair across from his desk, and I do so while he goes over to the sole coffee maker in the room and pours us both a cup.

"Where is the Joker?" I ask, leaning forward with my hands folded in my lap. The doctor quickly looks down at my unshackled hands, brow furrowed, and sits down across from me. He sets a mug down in front of each of us and takes a sip from his.

"Oh, he's fine. Just needed an adjustment to his medication."

"You do know he's not even taking some of it, right?" I raise a brow and tilt my head.

Unsurprisingly, he looks like he was unaware of this. "Oh, well. Okay," he mumbles and shuffles some papers on his desk. After a moment, he gathers himself and clears his throat. "Have some coffee, Mr. Wayne." When I make no effort to do so, he sighs heavily.

"So. Mr. Wayne. Bruce. How have things been going for you? Are you settling in all right?"

"I'm having trouble sleeping."

He nods and makes some notes. "We can do something about that... Now, as to the _voices_...?"

I'm confused. "I've never heard voices."

He _hums_ and makes some more notes. "Yes, but during the flashbacks, do you still have vivid recollections of things that have happened in the past?" He takes another sip of coffee.

"Most people exposed to Scarecrow's gas have them," I gesture that it's _no big deal. Most people with PTSD have them, too,_ I think, but don't say aloud.

He makes yet more notes, and I listen to the clock ticking in the background. It's twenty two seconds faster than the one in the cafeteria and three minutes slower than the one in the recreation room. I look at him and notice that he's watching me. He gestures towards the coffee in front of me. I do nothing.

"I think upping your dose of haloperidol is a good idea. However, as we discussed before, there are more side effects with an increased dose. If you'd like to try a regular sedative instead, there is the addition of the side effects of another medication. I doubt a man such as yourself would have much to worry about, seeing as you're quite..." he clears his throat, "physically robust, but... It's up to you, Mr. Wayne."

"I find it hard to believe you're giving me an option," I said and leaned back in the chair. The doctor visibly relaxed as I did so.

"Ah, what do you mean," he reached inside the left breast pocket of his navy blazer and took out a white handkerchief that he wiped his brow with. The room was quite warm. "Of course you have a choice of medication... within reason, of course."

"You mean 'within the bounds of what the judge allows'," I supplied.

"Well, you are here by court order, Mr..." he cleared his throat and squirmed in his seat.

"Wayne."

"Ah, yes. Wayne," he glances at the clock. "So would you like an increase in the haloperidol or perhaps some more... perhaps adding some melatonin?"

I narrow my eyes, "What are the side effects of the haloperidol again?"

"Well, there's some nausea, tiredness, a bit of weight gain, and some insomnia. The tiredness most likely comes from the insomnia..."

"And the melatonin?"

"It can cause excessive drowsiness. I personally wouldn't take it," he said it quickly and stood. "I can come by your room later and we can discuss it more if you'd like time to decide." I watch him as he looks at my hands and then to where my feet are shackled. He sighs heavily and walks toward the door. "I will get the orderly to give you your daily shot, Mr. Wayne. I will be seeing you later," and then he's gone.

I supposed that was a dismissal, but before I get up to leave, the receptionist steps in and tells me it'll be just a moment before I'm shown back to my room. 

Between tapping on the desk and squirming in the chair, I decide that maybe I _will_ have that coffee. The inmates... er... patients aren't usually permitted any coffee. This isn't the first time I was offered it during one of these appointments. I've had six psych evals since I got here, and I've had the coffee before. It's usually stale, but it's caffeine. I pick up the cup, and take a deep drink. It isn't as stale as usual, but it's otherwise fine.

I'm still trying to figure out what the doc's whole issue was when two rather large men in white scrubs walk into the room. One is holding a set of handcuffs and gives me a meaningful look.

I stand up and hold out my hands. After he places them on me and locks them in place, the other closes the door and stands guard. I notice a taser at his belt. _So not a regular orderly, then._ I take in the barred window to my right, and the orderly in front of me. He looks apologetic as he steps toward me.

"Mr. Wayne. It's time to give you your medication."

"It's usually around six o'clock, why are you giving it to me now? It's only three thirty."

He ignores me and goes to the cabinet to the right of the door. He unlocks it using one of the keys at his belt, and takes out a bottle of something I'm unable to read from where I'm standing. There must've been some _look_ on my face, because the one by the door with the taser clears his throat and the one with the medicine turns to face me.

"This will just take a moment, Mr. Wayne. I'm going to need you to turn around." I can see the needle in his left hand, the medicine in the right.

"It's an intramuscular injection, right? I usually just have it in my arm..."

He ignores me and takes a step forward. The other orderly reaches behind him to lock the door.

It's at this point that I'm aware something is wrong, though I'd suspected it before.

"What are you doing?" I ask slowly.

"Mr. Wayne, this is just a routine procedure. If you'd just turn around, I can give you the medication and we can all be on our way."

I open my mouth to tell him off, but I'm overcome by a wave of dizziness. _The coffee. Shit._ I fall back against the cabinet behind the doctor's desk.

"It looks like we won't need to give it to him," the orderly near the door says.

"Shut _up!_ You want to get caught?" The one approaching me partially turns away and whispers loudly in frustration to the other. "Now, Mr. Wayne. Will you cooperate and take your medicine like a _good boy_?" He's right in front of me now, and he has my arm in both of his hands. I'm unable to move in time, my reflexes are shot. I feel the pinch of the needle near my wrist before my legs give out.

He doesn't let me fall. Instead, he turns me around and pushes me up against the cabinet. I hear him mumble something and then there is another set of hands holding me up by my armpits.

I feel my pants being shoved down to my ankles and I try to shout, but I can feel whatever he gave me mixing with the whatever was in the coffee, and I'm struggling just trying to stay conscious and not throw up.

Then I can feel hot breath on my neck and my face is pressed into the glass in front of me. Something warm and dry is pressed between my legs, against my boxers, and I _freeze._

"Don't fight me, Mr. Wayne. It'll be better for you that way. I won't have to leave that pretty face of yours all scratched up," the orderly _without the weapon_ said it, and I try to buck him off of me. I can feel the hard end of the taser as it's pressed against my neck, and then I hear him hiss, "Don't, you moron, you'll get all three of us."

It's pulled away and suddenly my boxers are shoved down to my thighs. I'm having trouble staying conscious, but I manage to get a grip on the counter. _Fucker chained my hands in front of me!_ I push off from the top of the buffet of the cabinet, and succeed in knocking both of us down to the floor in the process. I land hard on the orderly without the weapon, and somehow roll over on top of him. I slam my head forward and crack my forehead against his. He moans and shakes his head.

The second orderly pulls me off the first, and pushes me onto my back. I try to kick out, but with the drugs, the leg irons and my pants around my ankles, as well as my boxers at my thighs, I'm unable to do much.

The first orderly is laughing and then I'm being held down by them both and being rolled over.

"Nice try," the first hisses in my ear, "Too bad it just makes it better for _me._ "

My face is smashed into the hardwood flooring of the office. My ears are ringing, but I can hear moaning and laughter as one of the sharpest pains I've ever felt radiates down my legs and up my spine. I clench as hard as I'm able to, but it isn't much with all of the drugs in my system.

Suddenly, my nausea comes back in full force, and I'm unable to keep my lunch, and what was probably some of my breakfast, down. I hear more laughter as I begin to choke on it, since the one holding my head down won't let me up.

One of them yanks my hair as hard as he can in order to lift my head up off the ground, and I take in a breath as fast as I can, whilst now dry heaving.

I try to push up, but more weight is pressed on my upper body as my body finally loses the battle, and I'm unable to clench my asshole any tighter.

"Finally!" He thrusts into me, over and over, and I'm unable to stop it. I can feel each tearing pain of my insides, each time he thrusts. I can't fight back. The weight on my back presses down harder, and my legs are held down and open.

It doesn't last long, and then he finishes. I can tell when he's done, because I can feel the weight on my back shift, and then another, heavier weight, is upon me. It's the second orderly, the one with the taser.

He's bigger than the first, in more ways than just overall physical size. It hurts when he forces his way in, somehow more than I was expecting. I feel numb and I'm unsure of where I am, but I am strangely aware of the wetness dripping down my thighs onto my balls. _That's too much. It's blood. I have to get to Alfred, I have to..._

The next thing thing I'm aware of is the ceiling in my cell, and a whole lot of pain. I'm unable to breathe properly and I start coughing. I can't stop. I try to roll over, and manage to throw up onto the floor. It makes a splashing sound.

I don't know where I am, but at the same time, I know I'm in my cell at Arkham Asylum. I can't remember how I got here. I can't remember what happened after the Joker was taken away, and I can't... _Oh God. Oh Godohgodohgodohgod._

_Pain. Laughter. Blood._

_Something in my mouth that shouldn't be there._

_Choking on it, warm and sickly bitter._

_Pain, laughter. Legs bent too far. Tearing pain. Hot pain._

I throw up again and then... nothing.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The next time I open my eyes, I don't have the slightest idea where I am. Everything is fuzzy; my vision blurry, and my memory is a haze.

I think about the fog outside and eventually remember the asylum. I haven't realised where I am yet, but I look around the room. It's cold, dark, and grey. There are no windows, yet there's a draft along the floor. I'm on that floor, on some sort of makeshift mattress. _So not the asylum, then? Or an area I've yet to see._ I try to sit up and I'm overwhelmed by dizziness.

"Whoa there, Bats. You might not want to sit up so fast." It's Joker. He reaches over and applies a bit of pressure to my mid back in order to help me sit up. I ache all over, but I just want to sit up.

I'm confused, and I say as much. He shakes his head and looks sad. "It's probably best if we don't talk about it now. Just... you're safe here, and that old guy is coming to get you."

"Old... Alfred?"

He nods and passes me a nearly empty bottle of water. For some reason, I _very much_ do not want to drink it, and I suddenly move away from it. There's a sharp pain between my legs and along my back, and I'm overwhelmed by nausea. I inhale suddenly in shock, and end up with a coughing fit.

He casually holds out a scummy looking yellow bucket, but nothing comes up.

"Sorry, Love. Here's an unopened one," he apologises and passes me a brand new bottle. "I forgot." He seems oddly subdued compared to his usual self.

I take the bottle, open it, and take a careful drink.

"Heh. It's not very funny, I think," he whispers.

"What isn't 'very funny'?"

"Oh you'll find out soon enough!" he laughs uncomfortably.

I lean back against the wall. "Where are we?"

"A precast concrete shelter a few miles outside of Arkham."

At my look, he quickly says, "That old guy told me about it after I contacted him. It's not like I just grabbed you and ran away."

I sigh and take another drink. I try to focus my thoughts, but I fail. "I've been drugged. I can tell that much. It's happened before and I can recognise it."

A few moments pass before the Joker says anything. "Yeah. It was some hardcore stuff. You're just lucky I had some flumazenil laying around, and that it helped at _all._ "

"So I was roofied. Explains the amnesia. Also explains the pain I'm feeling on some level, but... and how'd you get access to flumazenil?"

"Oh, you'll know more about that soon, like I said. Just stay right where you are until the geezer gets here. He'll have a bunch of _medical thingsss..._ You'll probably wish he _could_ give you drugs once you're more awake," he shrugs and gives me a warm smile.

I think about how he isn't so bad when he's properly medicated, but I will never forget what he's like when he isn't. _How many people have died or suffered because of him. Myself included._

My life is just one fucked up thing after another, but so it is for every single inmate at Arkham Asylum. I've been working for reform there for decades, and it looks like nothing's changed. Getting myself incarcerated there for nothing more than being The Batman is enough reason to wonder about the governance all on it's own. Though Judge Morel's corruption is not a surprise.

I sigh and slide down a bit further to attempt a more comfortable position. I immediately regret it as something _moves._ It's sticky and wet and _between my legs._ "Uh. What's with the...?"

_Pain. Laughter. Screaming._

_Blood. So much blood._

_Searing... tearing... splitting in two._

"Hey! Stay with me. Bats," the Joker is gently shaking my right shoulder where it joins with my neck. I realise he's only touched me where I have no aches. I push him away, glaring. At least he isn't staring at me like he usually does.

"Give me the lantern," I hold my hand out toward the cheap LED lantern he's got near the red water cooler in the middle of the room. I gesture to indicate that I'm not fucking around, and he complies.

It's hard to breathe, and I'm aware I'm most likely having a panic attack. I'm so used to flashbacks from trauma now, that I know not to ignore the ones I'm currently dealing with. I know they are important and point to shit I can't just ignore and _move on from._

I pull back the thin comforter covering my lower half and sit the light between my open legs near my knees.

At first, I don't see anything. I blink in confusion, and I'm aware that the Joker is biting his lower lip and fidgeting.

I'm wearing dark clothing, so it's confusing... and then I see it. I'm not wearing dark clothing. I'm wearing the same grey scrubs all of the inmates at Arkham wear. But. It looks like I'm wearing dark red, no, crimson... no. It looks like there's a sheet of blood covering my lower half.

I pick up the lantern and hand it back to the Joker, my hand shaking. _So that's why I'm lightheaded. Drugs and blood loss. Okay. Situation needs assessed._

"What." I swallow the bile rising in my throat, the terror threatening to make me pass out again.

"Happened." I take a deep breath, in through my nose, and I can't believe I couldn't smell it before. _Blood._

"To me."

He doesn't hesitate, "Maybe it'd be better to wait until the..."

" _What happened to me!?_ " I shout. My voice rises thinly at the end. _Oh God, I sound hysterical. That isn't going to help me survive this. Bruce, fucking_ breathe. _Fucking_ breathe. I make a list of all of the side effects of whatever fucking cocktail I've been on, including the shit I was clearly slipped, but I get turned around and nothing makes sense.

Joker sits the lantern down and gets another water bottle. He holds it in his lap.

"Well. You were raped. Obviously. And it's pretty bad. You were probably supposed to die, honestly." _Just like that. He says it just like that._ "They let me out of solitary, and I'd heard from the receptionist, Miss Gypie, that you hadn't signed out of your psych eval and that she'd been dismissed early by a couple of orderlies she'd never seen before, and she's not very bright by the way, so it was easy to ask her about it in the first place, and..."

"Joker," I whisper hoarsely. "How did you find me?"

"I just said..."

"No," I take a deep breath, through my _mouth_ this time. _God, I can taste it in the air. Something putrid and rotten and... smells like meat._ This time when he hands me the bucket, a little water comes up. "How did you _find me._ What did you see? What did you do?"

"Oh." He twists his shirt in his hands and looks away toward the bucket. I briefly wonder if this is what madness is. I think I may want to be mad, if it stops this feeling in my chest and makes all of the blood and possibly going into shock into a joke. "You were lying on the floor in some throw up. I figured it was yours, but maybe not." He shrugs. "There was a lot of blood and. White stuff. A lot of white stuff. It was all over your clothes and your skin and hair and." He swallows and looks like he's about to throw up. "I looked around and there wasn't any coffee. There's _always_ coffee. Doc can't live without it. There was a ring on the desk where you would've been sitting, but no mug. There wasn't even any coffee grounds, Bats. They took the coffee."

"Focus, Joker."

"Right! I, um, picked you up and took you to your room. It wasn't hard, since nobody was in the halls. It was weird. Like everybody was confined to their rooms or something. I couldn't even find Miss Gypie." He laughs, a high, thin sound, not unlike my own shout from earlier. It makes me want to be sick again, but there's nothing left and I don't want to add pressure to... _that._ How bad it would have to be to bleed that severely.

"Once we were in my room, what then?"

"I took off your clothes and got some things to stop the bleeding. I tried to wash off your hair and," he motions towards a bag behind him, "I saved the evidence. It wasn't easy. You weren't entirely conscious, but I'd given you some flumazenil that I'd hidden in the condoms. You weren't breathing so good and I had to help you to do it. So you fought me. You didn't like it. I imagine it was bitter, but the only thing you had to take it with was some old juice and spit since you couldn't even swallow."

"Were you laughing at all of it?"

"It wasn't funny, but it was at the same time. I mean. You were so helpless. Completely at my mercy, but it didn't do anything for me. I thought it was sad, but it was funny that you just flopped around like a fish." _So that explains some of the flashbacks, at least._ "I'm sorry for laughing," he grins, but like his usual lately, it doesn't meet his eyes.

"You saved my life." He smiled warmly at me again and I looked away.

"For what it's worth, I don't think of you any different, Bats."

I ignore him. "How'd you contact Alfred?"

"You had one of those Bat-things in your sock drawer. I'd seen you using it before. I just smacked it around a bit and eventually some old guy with an accent answered. I told him what happened, and he helped me find a way out and to this place."

"I should probably try to stop some of the bleeding. Why didn't I do that first?" I'm feeling so lightheaded and confused that it's hard to follow the shadows in the room. _Why are there so many shadows?_

"It's okay, Bats. I already did everything I could. You'll just rip everything open again. Not that it isn't already _really_ open... Bats? Are you...?"

The shadows close in, and I feel the rumble of the Batmobile before I hear it. A moment later, there are footsteps and Nightwing enters the room, out of breath.

"Where's the old guy? I said I wanted the old guy!" The Joker reaches over and pulls the blanket over my lap.

"Not gonna happen," Nightwing ignores him and walks over to me. I'm trying to shake off the grogginess. I must've fallen asleep. _Or passed out._

He holds out a hand and says, "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

Joker snarls, "He can't get _up,_ you thick-headed _batbird._ "

"He's not wrong. You'll have to carry me out of here." I dreaded the idea of moving and dearly wished I was still unconscious. "I've lost a lot of... blood."

"So you'd pass out even if you could stand. Right. Let me get you up, then." Nightwing stepped forward, knelt down, and the moment his left hand touch my lower back, my whole body seized.

"Ah!" I cried out and shoved him away. My heart hammers in my chest and I feel the threat of fainting once more tingling at the back of my neck.

"His back isn't so good," the Joker said, helpfully. "I'll do it. I know where he's broken." He carefully moves toward me and wraps the blanket more thoroughly around my lower half. It feels like I'm raw meat, and I grimace. "Sorry, Brucie," he whispers, and picks me up.

I don't remember the trip to the Batmobile, or much of the ride back to the Batcave. I have flashes of scenery passing by through the window that I'm facing, and I'm aware of fingers running through my hair.

They don't feel like Dick's. He'd be driving.

I guess the Joker knows where the Batcave is now.

I do remember Alfred being very upset with my makeshift bandages and arguing with Dick about taking me to a hospital. I go in and out of consciousness for what seems like days until I finally wake up fully.

I'm strapped to a makeshift hospital bed-slash-table in the main room of the Batcave. I'm unable to move, and I can tell I've been sedated, though with what and for how long, I'm unaware. The moment I become aware of the straps, the monitor next to me begins _beeping_ rapidly. I'm unable to catch my breath and a hand pulls the oxygen mask off of my face. I feel strong fingers running through my hair.

"Bruce?" Kent's voice. "Bruce, you're safe. Can you hear me? You're in the Batcave. You're strapped down so you don't hurt yourself. You have a lot of delicate stitches, and you've been weaned off of sedation so I can take you with me to heal you. Do you understand?"

"At least let him wake up some more, Mr. Kent," Alfred's voice.

My throat is dry and it hurts, but I try anyway, "Alf-fred?" My voice sounds absolutely shredded. I feel so odd. Like a small child. I'm scared, but I don't understand why.

"He's right here, Bruce," Kent again.

"Yes, Master Bruce. I'm right here. When you can see a bit better, you'll see me," he says. He sounds as upset as I feel.

I can't breathe and the mask is returned.

"Take a slow, deep breath, okay?" Kent's freakishly strong hands are still on me, and I can't _take it._ I try to squirm away, but the straps are too tight.

Then I _feel it._ The stitches. The fabric all over my lower half. How my legs are in splints. _Fuckers broke my legs!_

_Pain. Screaming. Splitting in two._

_Blunt force. A hammer? A baseball bat? A shovel?_

_What did they use?_

_Who is "they"?_

_Oh God. OHGOD._

The monitor is going crazy. I feel like _I'm_ going crazy. I feel like I'm dying. I hear something. It sounds like a wounded animal being beaten to death.

The high-pitch _beeping_ suddenly stops.

"For God's sake, Clark. Take your hands off him! After what he's..." _Alfred._

I can't breathe. There's a pinch in my right arm, near the elbow.

Everything goes dark.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It's cold. So very cold. I'm wrapped up in something warm, but I can feel the cold on my face and down to my very bones. I vaguely recall a feeling of familiarity, but I quickly lose consciousness.

"Bruce?" A soft, masculine voice, familiar, but everything feels odd. "I'm going to give you a tiny shot of haloperidal to ease your withdrawal symptoms, okay? I'm bringing you out of a medically-induced coma, and I want to be sure you won't be overly stressed. It's a small enough dose that it won't interfere with the other drugs in your system. I'm going to be touching your left arm to give you the shot. After that, as you come out of it, I won't be touching you again."

There's a gentle grip at my wrist, then a slight pressure on my bicep. I don't feel the needle pierce the skin.

"There. All done. I'll be just outside, should you need me," the voice says.

I'm groggy and I don't want to wake up. I had a nice dream about my parents and playing soccer with my dad. Mom taught me her recipe for cherry cake. I try to remember it, but as the seconds go by, my memory of it fades.

I sighed and opened my eyes. The lighting was dim, but I could make out a faint blue tint to the walls. _The Fortress of Solitude._

I'd been here once before, a long time ago. I never liked it, but the prospect of such complete solace was something I thought I could get used to. Now the thought of being alone terrified me to my core.

I carefully moved into a sitting position, resolved to stop the moment I felt the slighest twinge of pain. 

I felt nothing other than the typical expected soreness from the lack of movement associated with a prolonged convalescence. Confused, I made to stand and had some lightheadedness, but nothing major. _Kryptonian medicine is something else._

There was a wheelchair next to the bed, and I decided I'd rather not test it. I sat down and wheeled myself to the door. I was wearing a Kryptonian style robe, which at least covered more than the standard hospital gown. The door slid open automatically, and I heard the owner of the voice, Clark Kent, in the other room, talking with Alfred. 

"I didn't want him to wake up to it either, Alfred, but what can we do? The sick bastards shared it everywhere. He's going to run across it no matter where he goes," says Kent.

"At least they're dead!" That was the Joker's manic glee. _What the fuck was he doing here? Has everyone lost their goddamned minds?_

"Yes, well..." Alfred began morosely as I round the corner. "Bruce!" Everyone turned toward me. Alfred quickly approached and pushed my chair toward the middle of the room. I redirected it toward the outer edge so I could watch the exits. With Kent here, I doubted there would be any trouble, but I wanted to be thoughtful. Just in case. I saw the concerned expression on Alfred's face, but I also noticed Kent wave it off.

"How are you feeling, Bruce? Up to eating something?" Kent asked.

"Dunno. How long's it been since I had solid food?"

"About six months."

 _Shit. That long?_

"I'd better try soup or something first," I said. Alfred immediately went to the kitchen to presumably start on soup. It was his turn to wave off Clark's interference. 

Kent sighed. Leaning against the entertainment center next to the far wall, he looked every bit the normal human. But he wasn't. He was dangerous. _His strength was dangerous. Fighting him off would be impossible._

I was surprised at the thought. I had Kryptonite back at the Batcave, and even kept some with me most of the time. I've always viewed him as a potential threat, but this was... this was different. I felt on some level that he _was_ a threat, but that didn't make any sense.

_Pain. Blood. Scared so scared._

I tried to regulate my breathing and heart rate before anyone noticed, but of course Kent had heard the shift immediately.

"Bruce?"

"I'm tired. I just came out of a coma. Obviously my heart rate and blood pressure are going to be out of sync."

He, blissfully, dropped it, but I knew that would be short-lived.

When Alfred got back with a bowl of tomato soup and a glass of mulberry juice, I took my time with it. I wheeled myself back to the infirmary, got back into the bed, and went right to sleep.

And woke up to hands on me. Hands on my back, on my legs, forcing them open, searing _disgust_ pressing it's way inside.

I sat up, gasping for breath. A cool glass of water was pressed into my hand. I flinched, but Kent's reflexes were fast enough to catch it before it spilled everywhere. 

"Bruce, it's a glass of water. Drink it. It will help," he urged.

I took it and downed it in two gulps that ended in a coughing fit, but at least I wasn't feeling _that_ anymore.

He took the glass from me and filled it again. After setting it down on the night stand, he pulled up a chair. I glared at him with as much heat as I could muster.

"I'm going to ask it anyway, Bruce," he looked sad. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Fuck you and fuck _no,_ " I hissed.

He nods. "Okay. I'll listen when you _do_ want to talk, even if it's only about the weather."

"Well, good for me, then," I spit out.

He takes it, just like he always does, and that only makes me even more mad. I never used to care, but this, for some reason, just... sets me off.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"Would you if I did?"

He looks hurt, "Of course! I'd never..."

He easily dodges the glass I grabbed from the table and threw in his general direction. It shatters and the sound attracts Alfred.

"What's going on here," he asks.

"It's nothing. Just some spilled water," Kent says, and smiles as Alfred leaves. He turns toward me, and I fully expect the lecture I don't actually get. "He cares about you, Bruce. We both do. Hell, even the Joker seems to in his own, twisted, way."

" _Leave,_ " I say. He does.

I stare at the wall for a long time, numb, not really understanding why I'd expected him to not listen.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to hear about rape from a male perspective with a more personal, real identity to it (a face to the trauma, so to speak), here's a video that an awesome fellow helped make, including his own story.
> 
> https://youtu.be/tboj8ps3ZTk
> 
> I hope my own fictional story, based on my own real experiences, can bring more light to the topic.

It was just after four in the morning on, what I believe, was a Tuesday. I hadn't checked a calendar in about a week, nor had I bothered to open the new one Alfred had given me last January. _I should probably dig it out from... wherever it is._

I was in the kitchen, trying my hand at a recipe I'd seen online a couple of hours prior. I was still tired enough that it was entirely possible I'd end up confusing two utterly different recipes and I'd end up with something no one would recognise. _It'll still be edible, so..._

I'd been at home for nearly a month now. Alfred still performed his usual household chores and Dick was doing his damnedest to make it not look like he'd moved back in. With the exception of a daily phone call from Kent, everything was pretty much the same.

Well, mostly. Dick moved back in unofficially two weeks ago and has been trying to get me to give up the suit for a few days a week. Kent's told him several times that the Kryptonian machine repaired 85% of damage, and with rest and "care," I'll be back up and running shortly. I'd already had Dick using the suit since I got back. I wasn't going to put it out of commission, especially with the... with the... _with the news._

I shake my head and try to focus on the recipe. I'm aware of quiet steps behind me. _One step... two steps... an inhale... another step, a slight scrape, followed quickly by one more step. Alfred._

"Master Bruce," he greeted once he saw me from the hall.

I nod, "Alfred."

"Would you like me to make you something?" He's in his pajamas, and didn't even take the time to put on one of his dressing gowns.

"I've got it," I look down at the bowl in front of me, "once I figure out if it's pancakes or french toast, that is."

He moves on to sit at the table, scooting his chair off to the side where I'm standing. "I just got off the phone with Mr. Kent."

"At..." I look at the clock, " _four-thirty_?" I turn to look at him, and he looks down, embarrassed.

"He wanted to be sure Master Richard didn't need any assistance looking after Gotham this evening."

"As if that garish outfit wouldn't cause enough trouble, I've already told him that the addition of Superman to Gotham's shit-stew," Alfred grimaces, "will only make it stink even worse."

The clock ticks away, and I manage two oddly-shaped eggy pancakes before I give up and motion Alfred toward the stove. As I'm heading toward the table with them on a plate, he casually reaches over and takes it from me.

"You don't need these in your system," he says, and promptly puts the dish in the sink. He looks a little forlorn at the action, then picks the plate back up and gently sets it on the counter.

"Being sentimental about a plate of poorly made food?" I joke.

"Yes, well," he clears his throat. "The last time I had any food to throw out was when Master Richard made cupcakes when he was twelve." We share a look.

"Before that, I set the kitchen on fire when I was six," I chuckle.

"The _oven_ , Bruce. You only set the oven to smoking." His voice is amused, but tired. "It wasn't that bad, not really."

"The fire department came." I rest my head on my arms. "It made the papers all the way in Metropolis." I look at nothing.

Alfred _hums,_ "Really, you'd think they had better things to write about." He turns toward me and notices I'm not paying attention. "Are you all right, Bruce?"

"I really should be able to cook. What kind of adult person can't cook?" I change the subject.

"A lot of people are unable to cook. Now answer the question," his tone brooked no argument.

I sigh. "No, I'm not all right, but we've established that, haven't we? Ever since I put on that suit I wasn't _all right._ I wasn't _all right_ at the funeral, either, but it's never _mattered_."

"It's always mattered. _You've always mattered,_ " he flicks off the stove and comes to stand next to me. I notice he only hesitates for a moment this time before he rests his left hand on my upper back. "Bruce, you've always mattered. I want you to be more than all right. You know I've always wanted you to be happy."

My tone is bitter, "How do you propose I do that, hmm? You have any magic pill for me, Alfred?" I push away from the table and stand up. I'm not sure where I want to go, or what I want to do other than break something, so I just stand there, trying to catch my breath.

"Bruce?"

" _What?_ " It comes out harsher than intended, but everything seems to these days.

" _Talk to me, Bruce,_ " his eyes are pleading, his hands splayed in front of him, the desperation from the both of us hanging heavily in the space between us. "I know you aren't sleeping. You barely eat. I'm aware all the calls and visits from Clark are driving the both of us a bit mad."

I laugh, once, harsh, and loud. It hurts my throat to do it. "He doesn't even realise he makes it worse," I whisper.

"What does he make worse, because while I have my suspicions, I can't _do anything_ to help if you don't give me something concrete," he pleads.

I stared at the floor. He had this eager look on his face, like I was going to give him the key to Heaven, and I couldn't look at it anymore. I thought that maybe if I just gave him something he'd finally drop it and leave me alone. I haven't had a moment's peace with all of the asking and wanting me to _talk._

"I don't," his face falls, and _he's misunderstanding my words._ "He doesn't _do_ anything, just..." I move forward and slump into the chair.

"There's an insect," I start. "It's soft and squishy. You stamp on it because it's annoying, right?" Alfred nods in encouragement. "It's getting in the soup, and you can't have it in the soup. It'll upset the guests and... that'll be in the papers." He smiles and shakes his head.

"I assume there's a point, Sir?" He pulls up another chair to sit across from me.

I just look at the table for a while, and watch his folded hands. I watch my own hands, much bigger, much stronger. Calloused. Not the hands of a "rich brat." Not the hands of someone easily over-powered.

"I'm that bug. I'm that squishy, soft insect you don't want getting in your soup. So you... take it and slam something into it, and maybe it tries to get away, but you _don't want it to,_ so you either use poison to weaken it, or just crush it outright. Clark Kent. _Kal-El_ doesn't need poison." I inhale deeply.

"I get it. He is very strong," Alfred nods.

"And I couldn't," the emotion surprises me, comes on suddenly, and I'm unable to clamp it down. I choke on a sob and jam my fist over my mouth. Alfred tenses, but makes no movement either toward me or away. "I couldn't stop him if he wanted..."

"He would _never_ ," Alfred cuts me off. "You know him well enough, Bruce. He doesn't have it in him, and you've _seen that._ "

I shake my head and drop my fist onto the table with a muffled _thump_. "It makes no difference! I've helped countless victims of assault, Alfred, but I've only been able to do that because I've not been one! I'd told myself over and over it's not going to happen to _me_ , but _it has!_ I was over-powered, and by mere humans with absolutely nothing to their advantage except the very drugs that I've advised women to avoid for years! Clark doesn't need those crutches. He can just do what he wants, whenever and however he wants, and how do you think that's supposed to make me react?"

"I would think that you'd remember what kind of man he is, and realise that you are also a logical man, and understand that he is affected by this, too," he makes a face at me, and I realise I'm seeing red and he's probably noticing. "I'm not saying he's been affected by this anywhere near the way you've been affected. None of us have, but..."

" _Shut up!_ " I shove away from the table, moving it a bit with the action, and storm down the hall toward the door. I reach for my coat on the rack, cold nights and slippers be damned, before I realise I don't remember where I am.

_Pain, hot like being burned._

_'Be a good boy, Mr. Wayne,' mocking laughter._

_'That's right, take it like a good boy.'_

_Pain. My legs, I can't feel my legs._

"Bruce!" Someone is yelling my name, but I don't know who. It's cold and wet, and I realise I'm on the ground. It hasn't rained in over a month, so I don't know where the water... I look down, and I see there isn't any water. I'm outside and I either threw up or pissed myself. It's dark and I can't tell.

_Joker would have a field day. I had the 'wittle accident.' I should tell him. He'd laugh and laugh... we could be mad together._

I hear laughter, and then I feel something _too warm_ around my shoulders. I think I can hear sobbing, but I don't know whose it is. My fingers dig into the leaves beneath me and I then I know the screams are mine.

The thing on my shoulders gets a fraction tighter, and all I hear is someone saying, "It's okay. You're safe now. No one will ever do it again," over and over. As if the fact it already happened isn't what's making me this way. Unable to handle an adult conversation, or make _fucking pancakes._

I can't stop crying. I don't think I've cried at all since my parents died. Alfred said I did, but if I did, I certainly don't remember. I left Alfred in the kitchen, and he's probably upset. _I have to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't act like this._

I can't get up. My legs are numb. My butt is numb, but it _hurts inside._ I curl up as much as I can and rock back and forth. The _too warm_ thing follows and doesn't say anything else. I feel like I'm going to be sick, but nothing comes up. Maybe I really am sitting in throw up.

There's fingers in my hair and my face is being moved to lay against something hard and _too warm_. My breath hitches and I give up. I just cry, silent, and wet. I can't stop it, and I'm tired. I'm tired of feeling like a dead man walking. I'm tired of pretending everything is okay, even though everyone knows it isn't. I'm tired of feeling like used meat, like useless, rotten garbage on the bottom of somebody's shoe. Most of all, I'm tired of living. I'm tired of knowing I would've been better off dead. My parents would still be alive, and I wouldn't have been... I wouldn't have been...

My fingers dig into whoever's decided to go through this with me, and they dig in hard. I don't make a sound as my body spasms. I only breathe in and out, in and out, in as steady a rhythm as I can manage as I feel the phantom of something press inside of me, ripping the flesh that was never meant to be touched in that way, over and over and over and over again.

My head throbs in time with my heart beat and in time with the sensation of being smashed against the floor. I taste copper, and I can't tell if it's real blood in my mouth, or invisible semen. I can feel warm wetness spreading beneath me, and I realise in one hysterical thought that the wetness from before was the dew on the grass, and now I really am wetting myself. I close my eyes and pray to a being I stopped believing in long ago that I'll simply die out here, wherever I am.

The fingers in my hair don't move, the arm around my front, that I'm digging my own fingers into, also doesn't move. I open my eyes and stare at the ground, then at nothing in particular. I slowly become aware of the garish blue covering the arm across my front, and the bright red wrapped around my shoulders and trailing across the lawn. I look up and see my front door. Then I notice it's open, and there's Alfred and Dick standing there.

Alfred's got a blanket around his shoulders, and he looks unhappy. Dick is leaning against the door frame, and he's got the undersuit on. I catch his gaze, and he looks appalled.

"Why don't you go and make Bruce a hot bath, Alfred?" Kent says. Alfred nods and immediately disappears through the open doorway. I glance at Kent's face, and he's glaring at Dick. I look back at Dick, and he's shamefaced and looking anywhere else. "Don't you have a patrol to finish?" Kent's using _the tone,_ and Dick, too, disappears into the open doorway.

He sighs, relaxes his grip on me, and then sits heavily onto the ground. His face is a grimace, but he smiles apologetically at me all the same. "I know I said I wouldn't touch you, but you looked like you really needed somebody to step in and, I don't know, hold you together while you fell apart." He carefully pries his fingers from where they got wrapped up in my messy hair. "I wouldn't worry about anybody knowing about, um, _that,_ " he gestures with his other hand, as he moves it away, toward where I'm sitting. "Your robe and coat are hiding it."

I realised he's either sitting in it, or he can smell it. _Does he have a heightened sense of smell, too?_   "Did I throw up?" I mumble the question, feeling out of it.

"Not that I noticed," he shrugs. "You want help getting off the ground?"

I give a single shake of my head. I had forgotten how nice it was to just talk to him. _My best friend. And I'm scared half to death of him now. Just another thing..._ "Just another thing they took from me," I say.

"Mm? Bruce?" He leans forward.

"I can't even be near you without remembering everythi... whatever I'm able to remember. I used to be able to just forget everything I was dealing with while with you. They took that from me, too. They took my _best friend_ ," my face crumples, but I straighten it out and sniff hard. I've cried enough. I'm not so weak that I'm unable to man up over this.

"You've lost a lot of things in your life. Had things taken from you no one had any right to." He carefully slides his right hand underneath my left hand sitting on my lap. "But you've not lost _me._ I'm not going anywhere."

I look back at the, now closed, front door of the manor, and I choose to ignore the fresh tear tracks on my face. All I want to do is yank my hand away from him while collapsing into his arms and just leaving everything behind. I've never felt like that before, and it worries me.

"I've never run from anything in my life, and now it's all I want to do. I've grown to despise Gotham, Kent. I think that maybe I was deluded in thinking she'd ever get better." I look back at him. "I'm one man. Reduced to this, at the end of the day, what can I do?"

"All any of us can do, Bruce," Kent gives my hand a light squeeze and fully pulls away. I exhale in relief, and judging by the shift in his expression, he notices my heart rate drop as well. "It's up to you what you want to do. I know you'll make the right choice. _For you_. That's the important part. You have to make the best decision for _you._ Not Gotham. It may be time to let her go."

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another first-person account. I'm sharing it, because that's the point.
> 
> Watch out for some fucked-up recommendations in the "related videos" section of youtube if you watch this one. I've reported one called "Watch a man be raped" at least twice. Sick fucks! This video, however, is fine.
> 
> https://youtu.be/3MfVv_ljeSE

"To be honest, I think the bruising is healing really well," Kent states, matter of factly. I motion for the loofah, which he passes to me, careful to not touch our fingers together. _As if_ fingers _are the problem here,_ I grump _._

It turned out I was unable to make it upstairs on my own. My little meltdown strained muscles I hadn't used in six months. Clark helped me upstairs and sent Alfred away to get some sleep. It's ended with me in the bath with Superman standing guard by the window. Oddly enough, so long as he keeps that joke of a costume on, I'm able to separate my reactions in my mind.

"I haven't looked at any of them beyond what I can't ignore," I say.

"Well, they aren't that bad. Mostly yellow now," he shrugs.

"Real attractive, I bet." I manage to clean what I can reach, but without Alfred, my back is a lost cause. Kent is partially turned toward the window, so he misses the annoyance on my face. "You know, sending away Alfred means _you_ have to do my back."

"Are you all right with that?" He's looking at me, concern etched into every line of his face.

I try to not to laugh. It wasn't that long ago I'd've jumped at this, and he knows it. "Don't try anything, and it'll be fine."

He walks over and takes the sponge from me. I shake my head and hold out my hands. "I need to stand for this. There's no way you're gonna be above me for this."

"I was going to kneel, Bruce."

"That's worse. Just help me stand up."

It takes some work, and I'm dizzy and out of breath by the end of it, but I'm standing in the tub and Kent's wiping my back down. I lean against the wall with my arms outstretched, starting to feel the darkness I'm so used to, encroaching.

"Are you going to pass out? You're swaying a bit," he asks.

"No. I'm fatigued. You done yet?" I make the mistake of turning slightly to face him, and I see the look on his face. I can't read it, and that makes me _very_ uncomfortable. I quickly turn back around, my hands gripped into fists. "Leave. I need you to leave," I grind out.

"Okay," and he's gone before I fully hear the second syllable.

I lower myself back down into the tub, drain the water out, and fill it back up again. I stay submerged until Alfred knocks on the door two hours later.

"Master Bruce? Are you..."

"Do _not_ ask if I'm all right!" I shout through the closed door. "Just get me out of here so I can do something else."

Alfred enters with a towel and a robe. He helps me stand up and hands me what turns out to be a heated robe and towel. 

"What happened to Mr. Kent? I thought he was with you," he says.

"He's not here?"

"No, Sir. I looked for him, but I've not found him anywhere."

"I guess he listened, then," I mutter. "I'd like breakfast in the Batcave. I'm going to sleep in the infirmary for now. I'd like several things moved down there. I'll make a list." Alfred goes to say something, but at my look, he rethinks whatever he was going to say.

"Yes, Sir. I'll bring you something right away."

"Good. Thanks," I say, and limp into my bedroom, resolved to figure out a way to work out the tightness in my lower back.

A few hours later, I've had some potato soup and a light nap.

I head down to the Batcave with my favorite pillow and the lightest duvet I had in the closet. I'm able to carry more, strength-wise, with my upper body, easily. It's the lower half that's the problem. Again, I'm resolved to understand exactly _why._

I place the pillow and duvet on one of the chairs next to the computer, and I head into the infirmary. I gave a list to Alfred of some things I'll need that should take him a while to gather up and move down here.

I turn on the lights. When I go to set up the link between the main computer and the medical scanners in the infirmary, I notice there's an extra machine installed on the network that I didn't install. After looking around the place, I don't see anything.

I run a scan and it's Kryptonian. It was backdoored in, and the network is barely accessible. I sigh and head into the main room and scoot a chair into the infirmary. Once I'm sitting, I ask the main computer to patch a call through to Kent.

Once he picks up, "What the living fuck did you do to my computer, Kent, and how the about-to-be-dead-you do I fix it?"

Without missing a beat, he laughs and responds with, "Run another scan on the subroutine using those triangles on the left of the screen, Bruce. Those are Kryptonian and it'll give you your old network setup back."

"And why'd you add one of your alien machines to my network, Clark?" I ask as I do as he says. The connection breaks for a moment and I have the call resent as the network reboots. "Clark?"

"I'm still here. I was waiting for the reboot," he says. "I needed to attach the machine, because you were being kept alive by that one in particular until I could get you to the Fortress."

"'Being kept alive'?" I ask as I'm looking through all of the scans on record for me. A great deal of them are hidden in files I'm unable to read with either my software or native language. I curse under my breath.

"You can't access whatever you're attempting to without my program, Bruce. You may as well wait until I get there."

"I'll run my own scans," I say, but he interrupts.

"Your machines won't give you what you're looking for. All you'll see is scar tissue. The methods of retracing performed by the Kryptonian machines create a lot of scar tissue in humans."

I sigh loudly, "The kind of scar tissue that can be removed, or is it permanent?"

"It's permanent. It's the sole reason I only let it repair what would keep you alive, then put you in a coma. The 'full restore' it would give me, typically, would have turned some of your muscle into bone. It would've been a death sentence with what it would've done to your digestive tract. I didn't have enough time to attempt a better configuration."

"Shit! How bad is it?"

"Let me finish this and I'll be there. We'll look through the files together. Bruce, this is why Dick has been talking about giving the suit to him for a while."

"Because I may never be able to pick it back up," I state. "Fine. I'll wait for you."

I spend the time waiting for Kent to arrive looking through whatever I _am_ able to see. There are scant few medical reports that I am able to sift through, though I do see a log for the Joker listed amongst the medical files with the Kryptonian letters. That's one word that doesn't have a translation between both languages. _Must've been why he was at the Fortress?_

As I'm scanning through the system, I spot one of the recorded news segments titled, "Bruce Wayne: Billionaire Victim or Survivor?" I scoff and bypass it. Those live action reports, along with quite a few tabloid articles, were quite proliferate while I was out, apparently. According to Clark, Judge Morel (may he not rest in peace), committed suicide, and a recording of my... assault was found amongst his personal belongings.  
I wasn't told anything more, by my own demand, but Clark insisted that I be aware he'd been sending men to Arkham in order that this happen to them. He'd had about 23 men drugged and raped and it was all recorded. All in all, the total number of men he'd had assaulted was 67. Not all were full-out rapes, I was told by one of the detectives who came to update me on my own case about three weeks ago. Turns out good ol' honorable Judge Morel had a type. The stronger and more "built" a man was, the more likely he was to be raped and not just "touched inappropriately," I was told. Pfft. As if the distinction mattered to anyone outside of a court of law. Pun not intended.

I did some digging on my own. Many of the victims were forced to perform the actual assaults on the other inmates at the asylum in order to avoid it happening to them, _again._

Needless to say, I'm very glad he's dead, but disappointed I didn't get to see it happen. Personally, I don't believe it was a suicide, but I've yet to look into that.

I do know Joker took credit for the deaths of my own... my _own_... I sigh. He claimed in a live news report that after he'd gotten me "to safety," he got a gun, hunted them down, and shot them. Now how he knew who they were, I've yet to ask him. All I know now is that he's in a federal, high-security prison, instead of a mental institution. Maybe the medical reports on my computer can tell me more, or maybe it's another fuck-up by some high-level bureaucrat.

I've not found evidence of a trial, so I'm banking on the fuck-up. I sincerely hope he's still being properly medicated.

The automatic door to my left opens with a quiet _whiroosh_ , and Clark walks in. "Sorry I took so long. There was a pile-up on the Interstate." He walks over and without waiting for my go-ahead, pulls up the new system schematics. "I can switch it over now and run the auto-translate so you've got something to look at later, or I can do _that_ later and we can look at the files now. If we go that route, I'll have to reboot it with my program."

"Can't it run both?" I ask, sarcastically. I already know the memory can't handle both tasks. He looks at me, seriously considering it for a moment before giving me a dirty look.

"Not funny, Bruce."

"Come on, it was a little bit hilarious," I deadpan. "You mess up my computer and can't even tell me what it can _do._ I have to repair it now, you know. A man, fresh out of a coma, has to put his life's work back in order. What sort of person does that make you, Superman?"

"Shut up. I'll fix it," he grumbles.

"No, _you_ won't fix a damn thing. Just run the translation and we'll look through the files after," I gesture toward the screen.

"Fine, but it'll take a while," he says.

"Good. I need a rest anyway." I get up from the chair, attempt to stretch out my back, give up when it doesn't help any, and walk across the room to study which bed I should get into.

"Just pick one. I'll scoot it over here," Kent says.

I shrug, and pick the closest. Once he's got the program running, he slides the bed I'm on across the room to rest against the wall next to the computer.

 


	7. Chapter 7

I rolled onto my side and watched Kent initialise the translation program, talking to himself all the while. I'd never heard him speak Kryptonian before, beyond the occasional random word or phrase while we were at the Fortress.

I hadn't the faintest idea of what he was saying, but it had a strange sort of lilt to it, like a spoken song. I felt oddly relaxed listening to it. His voice didn't sound quite the same as what I was used to. I don't know what I was expecting... that he would have an accent whilst speaking it? For him to _not_ sound like a native-speaker?

I had gotten so used to his assumed Kansan accent, that I was only just realising Martha and Jonathan didn't sound quite like him when they spoke. This language, Kryptonian, actually seemed easier for him to speak, like it was what he was truly used to. I was hearing so much of _Clark_ in this language, that it was uncanny. I didn't hear Kal-El at all.

He clears his throat and takes a steadying breath, "Okay. I've got it set up. It should only take about ten minutes to complete the first few files. It'll keep running in the background. Oh! One more thing." He typed a few more things into the computer. "There. I've got it set up to use as little memory as possible. I made sure not to let it touch the security system's memory. I really don't want any Kryptonite gas to filter into this room."

"How'd you know about that?" I ask, though I'm not too surprised.

"Pfft. I'm not stupid, Bruce. My program warned me of it. I'll be sure to never go through your sock drawers."

"It's all encased in lead, and the gas requires a sophisticated key sequence to arm," I say.

"I know the sequence, so add making a new one onto your list of things to put back in order," he said, without even turning to face me. He looked through a few tabs of what looked like code, and then turned fully around.

"Congratulations. You've succeeded in defeating the Bat computer, Kent. Would you like your prize _now_ , or...?"

"Oh, stop. I've only done what I needed to. You know I wouldn't have touched it otherwise. I know how you like your illusion of technological superiority, Bruce," he waves it off.

" _Intellectual superiority,_ Clark. Get it right," I sigh and rest more fully into the pillow.

He shakes his head at me. "I don't know why I humor you sometimes."

"You love it, that's why," I bluntly state.

Kent smiles and says, "Obviously, I'm insane." He sighs and checks the screen behind him. "It looks like the first one is nearly finished. I'll go ahead and open it."

I maneuver myself into a sitting position as best I can. The stiffness in my lower back makes it difficult.

Kent grabs another pillow off one of the other beds and stuffs it behind my back.

The file is completely loaded now, and at first it only looks like gibberish. "Give it a second," he says.

Then I see it. It's a picture of a body, I'm guessing _my_ body, and there are a lot of red warning lines and messages on it all over my lower half. There are a couple on my head and one on my left arm near the wrist.

"Okay. I'll start making sense of this," he turns back toward the screen. "Each red line is a point of injury.

The ones on your head are a concussion and a fractured skull. You had a bit of swelling in the brain. The one on your right arm is the entry point of a needle used to inject rocuronium, which is a paralytic often used in surgical procedures."

He looks at me, and I nod him on.

"The other markers indicate quite a few things, actually. The ones here," he points to my lower back on the screen, "include your old spinal injury and a newer one to that area. The retracing repaired those with minimal scarring, so you won't have anything to worry about with those."

"What about with my head?"

"Your skull was re-sutured after the swelling was drained. Everything healed on it's own after that."

"And the rest?" I didn't really want to hear any of this part, but I'd be a fool to avoid it. A fool, and a coward.

"The rest of all of these red lines is, altogether, severe damage to the small intestine, a torn rectal sphincter, several broken bones in both legs, with one shattered knee cap and, well," he looked decidedly nauseous, "two severed Achilles tendons and a severed femoral artery."

"Wow. Shit," I breathe. We look at each for a long time before I ask, "And the rest? Is there more?" _Oh God._

He nods. "The first thing was stopping the bleeding. Bruce, there was a _lot of blood._ It was a miracle you managed to make it out of there alive. Joker did a very good job of... stuffing the uh, holes."

I nod and he continues. "It took, ultimately, nearly two gallons of blood to bring you back." He looks away from me, and off into the distance. "Obviously, had we done it the normal way, you wouldn't be here talking to me right now as anything other than a ghost."

"What did you do?" I adjust my position to alleviate a slight pinch in my right leg.

"I," Kent starts, then stops. He takes a steadying breath. "I used my own blood. Not enough to cause you any lasting issues, but enough that the repairs made through the retracing would be more effective, and so you'd have a better chance of making it through without bleeding to death first. It enabled me to stop the machine at around 85%, instead of the recommended 98%. We basically just sat you and your bed in my sunroom at the Fortress to recover."

"Why did it take six months?"

"Because I had to keep doing it every week or so. Your body would reject too much of my blood, but you'd run out the positive effects far too soon to be of any help."

"Okay. Is the next file ready?"

He checks, "Yes. It looks like the rest will be done in a couple of minutes. Let me open the next few." He clicks on a few things. "See the blue lines? Those are the repairs."

"All I'm seeing are blue lines literally everywhere but my left eye, Clark."

He smiles, "You had a lot of old stuff that the machine just recovered automatically. It's less likely to cause scarring on old, already healed, wounds. I was unable to alter that portion of it's programming."

"All right. Explain the important bits, then I want to have a go at everything myself." _I also want a peek at that Joker file._

He nods, "Sure. Most of the blue lines, like I said, are just old stuff like cuts and scrapes, but a few of them look like stress fractures and other kinds of injuries. I can go through each of them with you, or you can just do it yourself. Seeing as you'll do it anyway."

"Does the program translate every file, or just mine?"

"Ah. Every single one."

"Good. Once I'm up to it, I'll get to looking at the rest. I do have one question, though." I slid forward to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Yeah?" Kent had moved toward the doorway, but stopped at my words.

"Why was the Joker in the machine?"

He smiled sadly and said, "Evidence."

"What?"

"He wanted to provide evidence that Doctor Larity wasn't an innocent party in the scandal at Arkham."

"Considering how squirrely he was during my appointment, he was plainly aware of the spiked coffee, even if he didn't spike it himself."

"Bruce, he not only spiked it himself, but he often participated in the 'entertainment'."

"How would the Joker...?" I stop dead. _He knew. He hid the flumazenil in the condoms. He always acted up on my eval days and came back beaten to a pulp on his own! Shit. Could it have been any more obvious?_

"Larity had his own tastes," Kent continues. "I guess it goes without saying that Joker fit the bill, while you didn't. Morel liked to watch; while Larity, apparently, would participate personally," His fists were clinched and the room smelled faintly of ozone.

"Is he dead, too?"

"Not yet. Joker was unable to get to him before he got the both of you out of Arkham. As to the pair who went after you, he slaughtered them, Bruce, and anyone else who got in his way. It's why he's in a maximum security prison," he shrugged. "I can't say I blame him, considering what was on the video in Morel's office. It still isn't right, what he did, but, I get it."

I narrow my eyes, "Where is he?"

"He's in ADX."

" _Fuck!_ Are you serious? That isn't.." I stand up and wobble a bit once I'm on my feet. "That isn't where you put mentally ill prisoners, especially ones who are justified in their actions."

"Bruce?" Kent looks confused.

"Self-defense, Kent. What he did was self-defense. I'm going to need everything available on the prosecutor and look into his defense team..."

"Right, you don't know all of it. There was an anonymous tip that Morel was involved in a sexual assault scandal at Arkham."

"I'm aware that he had video of my assault," I steady myself and try to stand without any assistance. It proves difficult.

"Bruce, he had a 16TB HHD filled with assorted videos, photos, and audio of probably every assault at Arkham since they started, going back to _before_ he was even in office."

I sigh and use the chair for balance as I make my way across the room until my legs are more stable. _Damn bathtub._

"You need to ask him why he did it, right? The Joker?" Clark moves away from the door to let me pass. "I can give you the answer he gave me when _I_ asked, but he was all over the place when Dick brought you here."

I walk through the doorway, past Clark, and down the hall toward the supply room. I open a few of the lockers once there, until I find one of Penguin's old, useless canes. _I'll get one later, this is more important._

Afterward, I walk into the main chamber. Kent is waiting for me. He barely acknowledges the stick and begins pulling up the Joker file on the main Bat computer monitor.

"I thought you'd want to see what evidence he personally provided. See? He's got internal rectal scarring and extensive old bone breaks and blunt-force bruising, as well as newer injuries."

"I see it. Now tell me why he was brought here when I was." _Into my cave._

He looks uncomfortable. "Frankly, he wouldn't leave you alone. He'd pitch a fit any time one of us would attempt to separate you two. He was waving a gun around and kept aiming it at Alfred each time he wanted attention. I knew the gun wasn't loaded, but they didn't. I knew something was up, so I tried to work with him to calm him down. In all, he was instrumental in getting each of us up-to-date about the state you were in. Dick was entirely in the dark, and Alfred was in no shape to lead a rescue at that time. I had to step in. Alfred wanted you to go to a hospital, and Dick couldn't figure out which one, or even if you really needed to go. They both thought the blood was from your leg, which a lot of it was. If it wasn't for the Joker and my X-ray vision, you would've probably bled out in the Batmobile.

"He was the one who told me what you'd been through and the state he'd found you in. While I was busy trying to find the bone shard that was lodged into your artery, he was telling me that you were bleeding quite severely in more than one place.

"Since I'm unable to see internal organs as clearly as bone, he was very helpful."

I sit down in the chair still in front of the screen. It isn't ideal; the comfortable one is still in the infirmary. "Very well. I have some research to do. I don't think I'll need to take up any more of your time."

Kent nods and says, "I'll stick around upstairs for a bit in case you run into another nasty Kryptonian file."

I give him a _look_ , and with a chuckle, he goes to leave. He pauses to say, "Bruce. Don't do anything stupid or brave, okay? Remember I've got press privileges, all right?" He doesn't wait for me to respond before he heads upstairs.

 _He knows me too well,_ I think, and I settle in for the long haul.

 


	8. Chapter 8

I spent some time looking through the files Kent left on the main system before I transferred the rest over from the infirmary.

There were two files, one with the photographic evidence taken of my condition once I arrived in the Batcave, and one of the results after my little stint in the Kryptonian machine.

Some of the things I'd been told about my arrival didn't quite add up to what was in the pictures. I did, however, finally understand why I walked so stiffly now. I was determined to work it off, but I knew it would take some time.

Amongst the photos there were "before" and "afters" where blood was blocking a clear view, and where the blood had been wiped away. I shook my head at how I had simply been rolled over for a few of them without any prior stitching.

Alfred wasn't wrong. A hospital would've been the first choice I'd've made. The best choice given the obvious trauma, even if I had died as a result. My lower half was covered in deep gashes, and of the shots I could see of my front side, my left leg was clearly cut to the bone.

I closed that file since I didn't want to re-taste everything I'd already eaten that day. I rubbed at my left thigh, now aware of what the biggest scar indicated. I stretched that leg out underneath the table, taking note of the burn in several of the muscles there. _Not surprising. I'll have to look into nerve damage as a possible reason for the stiffness. Hopefully, that doesn't equal a permanent limitation._

I went onto the next series of images in the "after" file. I looked much better in these, though the scarring was quite heavy. If I were a vain man, I'd have to dip myself in a vat of scar cream for months and still not make headway on much of my back. _Good thing I'm not. Damn._ It somewhat explains Kent's expression in the bath. He's never taken the weaknesses of us mere humans very well. _His heart is too big, which I suppose is a very good thing, considering._

While Kent had told me he'd injected me with some of his blood, there was no evidence of it in the records. That was worrisome, and something I'd have to look into later. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gone rogue and made his own decisions whilst sealed away in that Fortress of his. The records did note extensive internal scarring, which I was disappointed in. I know he'd mentioned that the Kryptonian technology resulted in scarring, but the extent to which I was seeing in this file looked more like the technology, itself, ultimately caused more harm than what I'd already been exposed to. It was strange, and my instincts were on high alert. I made another mental note to look into this as well.

I reached into one of the drawers to my right and pulled out one of those instant yogurt snacks. I hadn't eaten solid food more than once since I'd woken up. I hadn't told anyone, but it was easily one of the more painful experiences of my life, and involved waiting the fifteen hours it took for it to pass all the way through my intestines and to the outside world. Honestly, it felt like I had eaten glass and it scraped against everything all the way through and out. I'd been making smoothies and shakes ever since. Some of those, I'd miscalculated the fiber amounts in the beginning, and ended up regretting as well.

Even with those, however, I didn't bleed like I did that first time. I consider that a win. As of right now, I try to get as much protein and vitamin supplementation as I can in order to make up for whatever malabsorption issues I probably have. With all of that scarring, I'm not sure it'll make much difference.

I decide to forego upsetting myself any further with all of this, and head back into the infirmary. Penguin's cane is nice, but he's awfully short. I think I'll make a trip topside and get myself a better one.

Once in the infirmary, I change my mind and think that I _will_ run my own scans after all. I lock the door and strip down, starting up the program while I'm struggling with getting my left foot out of the elastic cuff of my sweatpants. After cursing a few times, I give up and step on the leg with my other foot, and pull as hard as I can to get my foot out. I nearly fall in the process, but at least I get the damned thing off. I sigh in frustration and step up onto the platform.

Once the scan is running, I stand perfectly still, and watch the results appear on the screen in front of me. It's astounding! There's barely any internal scarring showing up on my scan. I understood there'd be a good deal of external, and I wasn't put off by it, but Kent said I wouldn't be able to see anything with my scan.

I am standing right there, with a clear picture of my insides on the monitor in front of me, and there's hardly any internal damage, whatsoever, regardless of what he said.

On a hunch, I quickly run what I've termed an "alien lifescan" on myself. Sure enough, I register as Kryptonian. Now, I know this isn't a perfect scanner, so I run a more specific scan, and the computer clearly shows the presence of Kryptonian nanites in my bloodstream. I step off the scanner and promptly delete all evidence of the scans it just performed.

I don my grey tee and sweatpants once more and head out into the main room. Alfred is there waiting with a basket of what I'd asked him for earlier.

"Did you know Kent injected me with Kryptonian nanites, Alfred?" I ask as I take the basket from him and limp over to sit it somewhere. I'd left the cane in the infirmary.

"No, Sir, I did not," he says.

"Good answer," I reply. I check to see if everything is in the basket. I turn around, and Alfred looks nervous.

"Sir? Is everything all right?"

I nod, "You didn't forget anything," purposely ignoring the real reason he asked. "I'm going out. Bring me something suitable for shopping," I say, and head toward the locker room. He looks concerned as I walk away, but is otherwise quiet.

I decide to wait for him to get back with my clothes by sitting on one of the benches lining the room. I hesitate before sitting down.

_Pain. The smell of coffee. Laughter..._

I shake my head and sit down. _Trigger, nothing more._

It isn't long before Alfred walks into the room with a pair of black trousers, a black blazer, and a cream button-down. He hangs them on a hook by the door and turns to get my shoes, as usual.

"No blazer," I state flatly. He stops in his tracks and pulls it off the hook, taking it with him.

I get up and grab the trousers and shirt. When Alfred gets back, I'm in the middle of cursing out the elastic cuffs again.

"Let me, Master Bruce," he offers. I stick out one leg at a time for him to peel the sweatpants off.

"Order me some of these without the damned cuffs, will you?" I demand.

He tries, and fails, to hide his smile. "Yes, Sir."

After I'm dressed, and with a navy cardigan this time, he asks me where we're going.

"To get me a cane and to visit the precinct." I wanted to stop by the Gotham Police Department and put out some feelers as to the Joker's exact whereabouts and condition. If he truly was in ADX, he was denied a proper trial. No inmate with a mental state as horrific as his belonged in a supermax prison. It was, in fact, illegal to put him there. I intended to remedy his placement, if for no other reason than that I owed him my life. Even if I didn't, it wasn't right to leave him there. Arkham may be shit, but the Joker didn't deserve the "clean hell" that was ADX.

Alfred and I headed upstairs to the garage. Once I was settled into the back seat of my Mercedes S-Class, which took a bit of effort, but was manageable, we pulled out and headed toward downtown Gotham.

We ended up at Jones' Wares, a quaint little shop that housed all manner of elegant, gentlemanly products. That was its tagline. It took some doing, but good ol' Jones Sr. got me sorted with a cane, all black with a ridiculously slippery golden handle. I'd already decided that I'd have to make a customised one with a knife hidden in the grip, but for today's purpose, this was good enough. It was best if everyone thought I was defenseless, and since Morel thought to not tell anyone I was Batman, that wouldn't be difficult.

Our next stop was the police department. I wasn't looking forward to the inevitable encounter with James Gordon. He'd become even more insufferable ever since what I can only describe as my _interrogation_ after my escape from Arkham. He was less interested in what happened to me and what I was doing in a coma for six months, and more interested in why the Joker "helped me escape," and why I wasn't dead. I got the distinct feeling he was disappointed that I wasn't and believed me to be in league with Joker. At least my own lawyers aren't corrupt, and they managed to get him to back down with some pretty heavy threats. It didn't hurt that, at the very least, one of the detectives was sympathetic once she'd seen what were, I presume, those ghastly photographs.

 


	9. Chapter 9

I am sitting in front of the desk of the standing Police Commissioner, James Gordon, regretting ever setting foot in this building. My suspicions are being confirmed more with every second word that comes from his lying mouth.

"That nut is finally where he belongs, yet you're in here demanding to know why he's locked up," he says.

"I'm 'demanding' to know why a mental patient with severe and obvious illness has been placed in a supermax prison like the ADX. He would be utterly unmedicated! It's inhumane and..."

"'Inhumane'? Now I know you were working with him all this time!" He slams his fist on the desk.

"Please, Commissioner Gordon, we're only trying to understand how something like this could have happened," Alfred interrupts. "Considering what we all know about the state of Arkham, and the fact that it is still in operation at this time, I think it's prudent that..."

"I don't care what you think is 'prudent'," Gordon sneers. "The important thing here is that a monster is behind bars and that's the end of it."

I speak up, "And yet the honorable Judge Morel and the 'good doctor' Larity are still free." Gordon flinches.

"Got anything to say to that? I know you absolutely despise me, but what of the other victims? Have you no common decency, even at the most base level?"

"Don't you talk to me about 'common decency,' Wayne. _I'm_ not the one running around Gotham in a bat suit."

I laugh, "The only 'suit' I've worn in the past six months is this one! Nice red herring, though." I smirk, and it sends him _wild_.

" _Why you little...!_ "

"Sir, maybe it would be best if we just left," Alfred says. "I don't think the Commissioner will be of much help."

"Oh, he's been _plenty_ , Alfred," I address as I stand. I turn toward Gordon. "Thank you for your time, Commissioner." Alfred and I leave.

Once back at the Batcave, I do a little more digging and send off a quick message to the Wayne family's team of lawyers. I'm getting to the bottom of what's going on. Who is the leader of the assault ring? What does Joker know? It's time to find out.

My first step is setting up a meeting with that helpful detective, I head upstairs to my office and grab my mobile phone. I send off a text.

_Sharla, it's Bruce Wayne. I'd like to meet up and have a chat. When would be a good time?_

Alfred is standing in the doorway when I'm finished. "What are you doing, Master Bruce?"

"What I should have been doing seven months ago," I reply. Alfred only looks at me with an almost endeared expression.

"You seem to have found a bone to chew," he says.

I make a face, "Since when do I not have one?" I limp down the hall leading toward the front door, remembering the events of the last few days. I reach for my white peacoat while Alfred brings me my new cane. I take it from him after I put on the coat.

"Sir?"

"...Yes?" I shrug into my crimson scarf.

"Where are you going?" Alfred hands me my brown suede gloves and I stuff them in a pocket.

"For a walk. I need some air," I respond and walk out the front door.

It had been a while since I'd been out here for recreational purposes. I intentionally chose to go out the front door and past the "accident," as I wanted to resume my life with the least amount of avoidance as possible.

 _A symptom I'll need to watch for even more, now that I have a_ real _reason to be afraid to go outside._

The leaves had already mostly turned and fallen to the ground, leaving a wet, mildewy smell that hits me in the face with a sudden wind. Naturally, I sneeze. My phone vibrates as I'm reaching for a tissue.

"Sharla? Yes, it's me.... Yes," I wipe at my nose. "Any time that you find good. I'm not exactly busy.... All right, dinner it is. Thank you. I'll be ready with a reservation for Le Mort's at seven." I hang up, only afterward realising I made a dinner date in a very public restaurant. With paparazzi and... _unguarded._

I shiver, despite the lack of any real chill and don my gloves. My cane kept getting stuck in the gravel everything few steps, which was annoying. The walk was doable, though the stiffness in my left leg got worse the farther I walked. I saw one of the decorative boulders near the edge of my property and figured I'd sit down.

I took my phone out and called Le Mort. They easily made a seven o'clock reservation for me. Even offered a private room, which I requested be on their second floor. Now all I had to do was walk back to the manor and brace myself for whatever I was walking into. As usual, I'd focus more on the task and the information, than how I was feeling.

_Feelings won't get me information on the Joker, or on what... Laughter. Nausea._

I promptly leaned to the left and threw up the soup I'd had earlier. I used the tissue to wipe at my mouth, utterly unsurprised.

 _You can ignore the feelings, Bruce, but they aren't going anywhere_ , I said to myself.

I jump at the sound of footsteps to my right and swivel in that direction. Dick is standing there, looking apologetic.

"I tried to make enough noise that you'd notice me long before I got here, but you appeared to be busy losing your lunch, so..." he shrugged. "Need any help getting back?"

I scoff. "No. I enjoy ruining all of my white clothing by sitting on muddy rocks." I hold out my right arm and he takes it, and all of my weight, as I stand.

"That's good to know, Bruce. I'll be sure to tell Alfred," Dick is smiling, but it's not in his eyes. He tightens his grip on my arm as my leg tries to give out. I manage to catch myself on the cane and he lessens his grip. "You got it?"

"I have no damned idea," I sigh and drop the cane to the ground. Dick is already there in front of me, reaching out with his own right arm. I take it and we just stand there. "I need a better cane. This civilian trash is getting me nowhere."

Dick's laugh is hollow. "You know I'll be whatever you need me to be, Bruce."

I wave him off and he lets go of me. "You have your own life, Dick. I can't ask you to take on the suit _and_ me."

He shakes his head. "I took you on the moment we met." He grabs the cane, then turns around and looks back at me. "You got it?" At my nod, he starts walking back toward the manor.

I follow, very slowly, the pain in my left leg radiating up my hip and into my lower back. Every step feels like I'm being impaled by a hot iron. The entire way back, all I can see or feel or hear is my assault. I grit my teeth and am thankful Dick chooses not to touch me as I step through the front door and nearly fall over while making the attempt.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Seven o'clock came around, and I found myself in the back of my Mercedes S-Class, in a black suit and waistcoat, with a black Oxford and black tie. I suppose that I felt like I was attending a funeral, or that I had just come from one. It was my first time truly out in the public eye since... what happened. My reputation as Bruce Wayne, millionaire playboy, was ruined. My name was plastered all over the tabloids with everything from me being secreted away in another mental institution, to the occasional bit of supportive petition to tear out and pass around to get Judge Morel actually taken care of.

As far as I was aware, none of those petitions ever made it past Gordon's desk... if he even saw them.

I suppose also, that wearing all black felt a little like the Batsuit.

_Pathetic._

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Alfred, when will be there?"

"Just as soon as we round this corner, Sir."

I'd texted Sharla again once I got back inside the manor, and asked her if we could meet at the restaurant instead of whatever unspoken agreement that may have been present in her mind. Hopefully, once we got together and I was able to ask my questions, she would understand this was a professional relationship and not a romantic one. Romance could be the farthest thing from her mind, but in the event it wasn't, she needed to know that it was quite far from mine.

I decided, while still in Arkham, that I was dropping "Brucie." I failed to see the point when I was locked up there for nothing more than Gordon finding out I was The Batman. The last time I checked, being a masked vigilante was my only crime. Gordon, on the other hand, took my philanthropy as a sign that I was covering up something illicit. Someone fabricated evidence to get me put in Arkham, and I still don't know who did it, or what the evidence was.

I also don't know the crime, only that I was deemed "criminally insane," and unfit for freedom. The majority of this past month since I woke up, I've been carefully withdrawing myself from the haloperidol. I can't say it's a success, but I can say that I've figured out that a lot of what happened to me this past year happened purely because I was drugged out of my mind. Obviously, not everything was a result of one drug, but any drug with an effect on the brain can cause lowered inhibitions, distorted perceptions.... it's entirely possible I allowed myself to be locked up for some reason, but I can't remember what it was.

"Sir? We're here. Would you like me to drive around the back?"

"Yes, Alfred. Thank you," I hold my hands in my lap and press them together to stop the shaking.

Alfred pulls the car up to the back entrance, which I've used before, and I open the door, grab my cane, and climb out. Once I close the door, I nod to him and head for the entrance to Le Mort. One of the employees is standing outside, smoking. As soon as she sees me her eyes widen and she goes ashen. Once I'm close enough to the door, she blindly opens it and lets me in. Her eyes never leave my face.

_Great. Fucking fantastic. Just what I need right now._

I walk farther into the restaurant until one of the waitresses notices me and goes to get the maitre d'. He's a good-looking man, looks to be in his 40's, with what is probably one of the most expensive uniforms of someone in his position that I've ever seen. I am instantly uncomfortable.

 _Are those diamond cuff-links?_ I wonder.

"Mr. Wayne. Hello. I'm Maxwell. We spoke on the phone...?"

I nod dumbly.

"If you'll follow me, please. Your lady friend is waiting for you upstairs." He turns and I stumble along behind him, wishing I had thought to tell Alfred to come with. There is also no elevator in this restaurant, so by the time I manage the stairs, I am not only winded, but my leg is in worse shape than it should have been. I have a brief thought to check the exits, but before I get the chance, I can see Sharla standing next to the window through the open doorway.

"Here is your table, Mr. Wayne," Maxwell says. "I will send someone up shortly to take your... order." He makes to leave the room, but I can feel his eyes on my back as I make my way to the table to sit.

 _What's_ his _problem?_

"Sorry, Sharla. I'm happy to see you. It's just that those stairs were a bit brutal," I say to the woman by the window. She'd turned around when I walked in.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Bruce. I understand," Sharla smiled and came over and sat down across from me.

"How are you doing?" She stretches her hand over the table and I reach over to shake it. It's a friendly handshake, and I'm put at ease that she's not misinterpreted my intentions.

"As well as I can really be expected to," I shrug. "You?"

"I'm getting a free meal at the most expensive, exclusive restaurant in Gotham. I'm doing all right," she laughs. It's a soft sound meant to put me at ease.

A waitress shows up soon after that and I order whatever the house soup is, while Sharla orders something with fish. I make a face and call the waitress back and ask for some boiled vegetables on the side with a couple of dinner rolls.

"So," Sharla begins, twirling her sandy blonde hair around her fingers, "What's the occasion? I know we're not here just to eat."

I clear my throat. "I need some information. While I'm able to get it by other means, I'd rather play it straight with this one."

"All right," she leans back in her chair. "Shoot."

"I need to know how and why Joker is in ADX. I also want to know how my case is going, since Gordon refuses to talk to me or my lawyers."

Her eyes narrow. "Any of that can cost me my job."

"And I'd give you a job at Wayne Enterprises that paid at least twice as much if it did."

Sharla sighs. "Joker's in ADX because DA Roberts is a slimeball. I get that he saved you, Bruce, but you don't owe that murderer anything..."

"That's not for you to decide. The Joker is ill. He requires medical care, and not maximum security without hope of treatment. He is also a victim in this..."

"I know he is, Bruce. But you didn't see the crime scene he left behind him. It was _bad._ "

"You're right. I didn't see it. It still doesn't change my opinion."

She nods, "I know that, but it's out of my hands. I can't do anything on my own. If you want your lawyers to handle his case, feel free. I can help them find a judge that isn't Morel. That's all I can do." She moves her chair closer. "This isn't an official announcement, Bruce, but rumor has it Morel is no longer allowed on the bench."

It's my turn for wide eyes.

"I just wanted you to know that not even he is immune to justice. I don't know the exact details, but a couple of reporters from The Planet dug up some dirt on his boss and his boss' boss and it put enough pressure on them both to get something done about him quicker. We just need more time to get stronger cases against both him and Larity. It would be helpful if we could get more inmates to testify like you've been, but so much of the evidence is inadmissible or beyond the statute of limitations. It's ridiculous. Had this happened anywhere other than Gotham, they'd both be behind bars by now."

"They will be behind bars someday. We just don't know when."

"I wish I had your confidence."

"You forget who I am and who my friends are, Sharla. If there's a way to punish these people, I will make it happen."

She smiles, "Just don't forget about _you_ in the process, okay?"

I look away from her. "You let me worry about me."

She gets the hint and backs down.

The rest of the dinner is uneventful. She promises to stop by and bring all of Joker's files with her if my lawyers can get him to sign a form stating that they can have access to all of his records.

It looks like the Wayne family lawyers and I have an appointment with a certain inmate at ADX.

 


End file.
